How Lavender Brown Learned to Hate Christmas
by luvscharlie
Summary: You can only appreciate true hatred of the Christmas holiday season if you work retail. George/Lavender


_How Lavender Brown Learned to Hate Christmas (and Love George Weasley) in Just Twelve Days _by Luvscharlie

_Warnings: __A bit of violence, so much banter, and I think this might have actually been hotter if they'd have stopped talking for even a second, though one of my betas assures me that's her favourite part, cunnilingus, first time (together at least) and light bondage._

_A/N: Originally written for silvernatasha's request at the 2010 Kinky Kristmas double-blind exchange on Insane Journal where the prompt was Lavender/any Weasley, a request for "hands tied" and a prompt of "The Twelve Days of Christmas"—this is hands-down my favourite thing I've ever written.I hate myself for wanting you." Thank you aigooism and teenage_hustler for the beta work._

* * *

Most people love the holidays. The holidays are bright and festive, and there's the spirit of giving floating about the air, or some such nonsense. That's what I hear anyway. Well, just let me tell you what I think about Christmas. That old miser in that Christmas story—he had it right. Bah humbug, indeed! Those people who love Christmas are not in retail. They can't be. Or else they'd understand my desire to hang myself with a strand of holiday lights almost daily. In fact, I think my husband knows of the danger, because he's taken and Spelled most of them so that they won't fall down, and they float out of my reach more often than not if I walk by them. Of course, this is what happens when you become Lavender Brown Weasley. Marry a Weasley boy and—Oh, wait, I should probably make sure we're clear on something—Not _that_ Weasley boy. I know what you were thinking. You were convinced it was the one who broke my little teenage heart. Nope, not him. He went off and married that fuzzy-haired twit, who saved me from that werewolf, so now I feel as though I have to be nice to her. Pity being me, huh? Though, in hindsight, maybe he was the better choice. After all, he doesn't own a joke shop for his wife to work in.

And it was like this from the moment I took this job, long before I married myself a Weasley. Think I'm an unreasonable Christmas hater, do you? Well, maybe if you heard my story, you'd understand.

It all started two years after the war during the busiest shopping season of the year—Christmas, of course. Please do try and keep up.

Stockings needed to be stuffed, mums were balancing boxes and babies up and down Diagon Alley and I needed a job, so I answered an ad in the _Prophet_… and it all started there.

_

* * *

_

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me…

**One wretched job…**

…which I applied for. But this isn't about what _I_ did wrong. Well, not really.

George Weasley was running about Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes stocking shelves and readying the shop for a busy day, early one morning, when I knocked on the window and held up the paper pointing to the ad that I'd circled in red.

"Go away," he shouted, "we're not open yet."

"I didn't come to buy something," I shouted back through the window.

"Then go away and don't come back," George said, without even being courteous enough to look at me. "I haven't got time for your nonsense. And if you're selling something, I'm not buying. I think that about covers it all. Now, shoo."

"I'm not selling anything." Talk about poor treatment. I hated being dismissed as though I don't matter.

"Well, that's probably for the best because you're not very good at it. Persistence is an important quality in a salesperson and you've already stopped trying to sell me something. I think you should consider getting yourself another profession."

I stamped my foot in frustration and banged hard on the shop window. "I'm not selling anything! I'm trying to get myself a new job," I said. "This one." I pointed at the ad in the newspaper again when George Weasley finally looked my way.

"Well, why didn't you say so?"

"I tried."

"Not very good at making yourself heard, then, are you?"

"Good grief! You're frustrating."

"You think you're the first woman to ever tell me that?" The corner of George's mouth twisted up into a smirk as he came forward to unlock the door and grant me entrance. If I'd only known then how much that smirk was going to come to affect me, I might have turned and walked away then and there.

"I'm quite certain I'm not. I imagine women have been telling you that for years."

"Well, you'd be right about that."

I attempted to turn his focus back to the ad which I was answering. "Now about this job," I started.

"Yeah, about that," George interrupted. "Why haven't you started stocking that shelf over there with porn-oculars yet? Those are our biggest seller this time of year."

"Maybe I haven't started because you haven't hired me. And porn-oculars? Seriously? Could that be any less creative a name?"

"Don't knock them till you've tried them, sweetheart. Pay day's on Friday." He paused then pulled a face. "Of course, there are no Galleons to dole out if there are no porn-oculars on the shelves for people to buy. So, you might want to get to that, you know?"

And that was how my job at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes started. With pervy porn-oculars and a pain in the bum, if somewhat attractive and sort of hard-to-resist, boss.

* * *

_On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me…_  
**Two black eyes.**

Yeah, it sounds worse than it was. I did get two black eyes, but I'm not sure I can blame that on George. At least not _entirely_ on him. It is his fault for piquing my interest. I mean a girl gets curious when she hears the word porn. Boys, they get to toss that word around without disapproving gazes and whispers about how nice girls just don't.

And George, he left me in charge while he went out to lunch with Lee Jordan, who happened to be visiting his mum in England for the holidays. The shop was dead quiet, nobody coming in to bother me by asking where to find the Puking Pastilles, or were the Farting Frogs (I'm still not sure why people liked those!) still out of stock—but there were those porn-oculars staring at me from the shelf and just begging me to come and take a peek.

Curiosity cracked the Kneazle—or at least it gave it a black eye.

I was drawn over to that shelf of fascinating devices and my feet followed the calling in a manner that was seemingly beyond my control. I suspect he put a spell on them so that I was powerless to resist. It's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

I found myself reaching into the box of shiny brass porn-oculars and putting them up to my eyes—and there, looking back at me and beckoning me forth was a woman with bare breasts the size of small pumpkins. An Engorgement Charm, no doubt. No woman had real tits that were that perfectly round, perky and huge. Sometimes we got round, and I, had been gifted with a large set of tits myself—but perky like that—not likely. Only a man could possibly be dim enough to believe those were the real thing. Then, that big breasted creature, with long dark hair, lay down and—I gasped at such blatant lewdness—and I typically thought myself a forward-thinking woman of the nineties. I tossed those filthy porn-oculars right back into the box and hurried over to the register as the door chimed to announce the entry of a group of customers.

I noted that as I was ringing up the group of teenagers' purchases that there were sniggers behind their hands and they were lively and laughing, but that, in and of itself, doesn't raise one's eyebrows when it occurs in a joke shop. I never once believed they were actually laughing at me.

They were.

George came back from lunch, pausing at the door to bid Lee Jordan goodbye, and he was just beginning to order me to unpack some new stock of vomit flavoured lollies. He stopped short when he saw me. And then, he began to laugh and point. At me. Which was obnoxious and made me see red.

I tried to wait for a lull in the laughter, but it seemed to be endless. I got angrier by the moment. "Care to share what's so bloody funny?" Probably not the proper way to address one's new employer, but when working for George Weasley, concessions had to be made with the rules of propriety. He ignored me and laughed on, so that I was forced to stomp my foot and demand an answer. "Stop that this instant!" I shouted, when the laughter continued despite my very demanding tone and the foot stomp that usually at least made normal people take notice that I was growing angry. George wasn't normal people. "I demand to know what you're laughing about. Nothing's exploded all day. I'm fairly certain I don't have any bogeys hanging from my nose." I gave a rub around the edges, just to be safe. "Oh, and you haven't sold ten Knuts' worth of merchandise all day."

That sobered him immediately, and the laughter died off in coughs and chuckles. He looked distressed at the information that sales were down, but when he looked me dead on, it seemed as though he was really struggling to keep a smile off his face. Given that he'd suffered an unfathomable loss in the two years prior to my joining his staff, I would have been glad to have seen him smile, if it wasn't for the feeling that his smile was directly at my expense.

I wasn't wrong.

"Been dipping into the merchandise, have you?"

I was no thief and I resented such an allegation. "I have not!"

"You have too."

"I'll have you know, I am no thief! I don't have to listen to this! I quit!" How things would have been different if I'd have walked out the door right then. And I intended to. Oh, how I intended to. I gathered my cloak and stomped to the front door, and I only stopped at the sound of his voice.

"You might want to wipe the evidence from your face before going out onto the street. Particularly given how averse you are to being laughed at."

"Evidence? What evidence? There is no evidence because I've done nothing wrong."

"So I guess you didn't have yourself a look at the porn-oculars?"

"What? No! Of course not! I'm a proper lady and-" My voice trailed off when his laughter resumed. There was simply no way he could know that. I was going to stand by my story and—then he put a mirror in front of me—Lavender Brown, Raccoon-in-training. I had two perfectly round black circles around my eyes. The exact size of those porn-oculars' looking glass pieces. "Well," I started, "I suppose I might have had a peek."

"Did you get Melons-for-Boobs or Mr Giant Cock?"

"Apparently, the wrong one." _Wouldn't you know it?_

"Well, she's something, but he does seem more your type." George took down a set of porn-oculars from the shelf. "We put this spell on them when people kept lingering about the shop so that they could stare into them all day. Then some bloke decided to pull down his zip and—"

I interrupted quickly. "I get the idea!"

"Anyway. No more free looking." Then George handed me a pair. "But seeing as how they seem to interest you so much, why don't you go ahead and give the old boy a look."

I wanted to, but those rules of a proper lady's behaviour that had been driven into my brain from infancy refused to allow me to admit it. "No, thank you," I said, in an attempt to salvage my dignity, though it was a bit bruised when I was forced to take the proffered handkerchief to clean my face. George simply shrugged, tapped the porn-oculars to remove the Eye-blacking Spell and dropped them into my hand. "Free of charge. You've earned them."

This job was proving a challenge, but I did need the money if I planned to make my monthly rent, so I held my head high and attempted to work the remainder of the day ignoring George's giggles and trying not to make eye contact.

I've never been so glad to see a day end, and though I tried to deny it to myself, I was more than a little excited to get home and catch a peek at Mr Giant Cock. For the record, given that there could be potential Wheezes' customers who might be reading this—you'll want to be buying one of those. Not the girl one. I mean, she's rather ridiculous. But him—well, trust me ladies. Shell out the Knuts.

_

* * *

_

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me…

**Three years of past grudges to get over in a day—yeah, 'cause that went well… for me anyway. Not so for poor Ron.**

First of all, I wasn't expecting Ron Weasley to come waltzing through the door for work that morning. He was freshly returned from his honeymoon, with a bit of colour on his freckled cheeks and goofy grin adorning his face. Well, it adorned his face until he saw me halfway down aisle three stocking a shelf of Skiving Snack Boxes. Apparently, he didn't know I'd be working there any more than I'd known about him. His smile vanished.

It was silly really, the fact that I still harboured resentment for a years old crush. But the newspapers hadn't helped. Ron had received hardy acclaim for his role in the defeat of You-Know-Who, and I'd gotten little more than some nasty scars on my belly for my trouble. So seeing his smiling face, the way his hair flopped over his forehead—that horrible twit of a girl hanging on his arm every day when I opened my copy of the _Daily Prophet_-okay, silly or not, I wasn't over it.

I did, however, try to be civil to the lying, cheating git who'd broken my heart. "Good morning, Ron."

"Bloody hell!" Ron looked fretfully around the shop. "What the hell was George thinking, hiring you?"

"Well, that's some way to act! And I was trying to be polite! You—you—you big arse."

Ron held out his hands as though to placate me, and then shoved them in his pockets and looked around again as though terrified someone had seen him. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to—it's just—fuck! Hermione's going to be here any minute and—"

I took the high road and finished for him. "—and she's a grown woman. We're not children anymore, and I'm sure that a girl as level-headed as Hermione Granger—excuse me, Hermione Weasley—" boy, that name tasted bitter on my tongue—"will respond as a reasonable adult to my presence in this shop."

Ron looked desperately around the shop for his brother, as if maybe George would listen to his pleas to sack me. Then he sighed deeply and gave me a sad smile. "My wife is typically the most reasonable person I know." He gulped and scuffed his shoe on the floor. "Except when the subject of you comes up. It's like she's a different person. She's not the jealous type… usually."

My heart leapt with joy at the knowledge that Hermione Granger was just as shallow as I when it came to the subject of teenage loves and Ron Weasley.

The bell announcing someone's entrance to the shop chimed, and Ron shoved me towards the back. "Hide."

"I will not."

"Please!" He looked so pitiful that I almost agreed. Almost.

"No! This is ridiculous." I pasted a smile on my face (which probably more closely resembled a smirk) and greeted Hermione Granger-Weasley with a friendly hello.

"Oh! Hello, Lavender. Here to do a bit of shopping?"

_Oh, this was going to be even more fun than I'd imagined._ "No, I'm working here."

And there it was. The look of apt horror that I'd been anticipating. Oh, Hermione tried to cover it, but the shock reflected on her face before she could hide it. We made a bit of falsely pleasant small talk and she left the shop. Ron followed, despite the fact that he was meant to be working.

"Felt good, did it?" George asked from the shadows, where he'd clearly been watching.

"Probably shouldn't have."

"But…?"

"God, it felt good." I looked back at a smirking George and shook my finger. "Which is information you'll keep to yourself."

He made a motion of zipping his lip and tossing away a key. And I couldn't help thinking that I kind of liked George Weasley. It was my first step towards doing a little more than liking my future husband.

* * *

_On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…_  
**Four French witches (that I considered murdering…with an axe… and lots of blood—but I'd be the one to have to clean that up, and it seemed like an awful lot of work).**

"My God! How does your brother stand her?" I shouted when Fleur, her mother, her sister and baby daughter finally left the shop.

"Oi, that's my family you're insulting there." I might have been more concerned about my comments if George hadn't been smiling with that twinkle I'd come to appreciate in his eye.

"Your family by marriage. That hardly counts."

"Well, my niece is blood-related."

"She's a baby. A rather adorable one. There could even be hope for her if someone wrenched her way from that beast of a mother before it's too late."

George grabbed one armload of costumes from the newly installed dressing rooms, and I grabbed another. Fleur had tried on every single style before selecting the French maid outfit she'd tried on first and leaving the others in a messy heap. She hadn't even paid for it. George, she said, would never make family pay.

"I'll send my brother the bill. Free, my arse," George muttered, shoving a healer's robe onto a hanger.

"We're a joke shop," I grumbled. "Why are we even selling these?"

George's ear went a little red, but he winked at me suggestively. "Always good to expand, and it seems some witches want to give their husbands or boyfriends… or girlfriends—whatever, I don't judge—a little something special beneath the Christmas tree this year."

I was perplexed. "Really? What's that?"

George leaned in to whisper, eyebrow raised, breath warm on my neck. "Themselves. All dressed up and nowhere to go… except the bedroom."

"Oh!" I looked at the school girl outfit I was about to hang up and blushed fifteen kinds of red. "OH!"

And I cursed Fleur Weasley again in my head, for no other reason than she had a handsome man to wear that naughty outfit for—and I would be going home alone with only Mr Giant Cock to look forward to. And Mr Giant Cock probably wouldn't appreciate that school girl outfit that kept drawing my eye. I'd look good in that. It led me to only one conclusion. Fleur was a bitch, and I hated her. Mr Giant Cock didn't like her either. He was loyal.

_

* * *

_

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…

**Five golden rings.**

"Another new product?" I asked, as I knocked over the tiny ring boxes I was trying to shelve for about the fifth time. "Now we're selling jewellery?"

George shook his head. "This one's going to kill. I swear, I think it's my best idea yet!"

"What do they do?" I dropped the box I was holding onto the shelf I had previously been stocking and took a step back. Things around here exploded on a daily basis. I'd learned to keep my distance in my five short days of employment. I was a quick-study that way.

"See, blokes buy the ring to sort of fake propose, and when the girl says yes, they—"

I held up my hand. "Do not tell me anymore."

George shook his head as though I was a hopelessly lost cause in the business of retail and humour. "They're selling like mad."

It was a fair statement. I'd sold twenty in the last hour and a half. I had just thought the stones were nice, and that others were appreciating them as well. "The fact that these things are selling is a true testament to the idiocy of men everywhere. How many of these have we sold total?"

"About forty."

I sighed and placed another small box on the shelf. "I expect there will be forty new death notices in tomorrow's _Prophet_."

"Women have no sense of humour," George replied.

"And the fact that you find this amusing is the reason no woman will ever marry you, George Weasley."

You know that old saying about eating your words… shut up.

* * *

_On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…_  
**Six rabid Pygmy Puffs.**

The snow seemed to blow me through the door the next morning, where I was met with shouts from both Ron and George of, "CLOSE THE DOOR!"

I did, and looked around at them running about the shop gathering up the tiny coloured bits of fur that had been in a cage that I'd given a wide berth since my employment began. I plastered myself against the door in abject horror at the sight of the little beasts running free about the shelves, over the merchandise and about the floor.

I struggled for the door handle to try and escape, but George seemed able to read my mind and he dove for the door and blocked me in. "Don't open it. They'll get out."

"So will I!" I shrieked. "That's the goal, you dunderhead!" Probably not what one should call their boss, but I was stressed so I got a pass.

"They won't hurt you."

I held my purse above my head, ready to attack. "They won't get the chance!" I had to draw the line somewhere. I had come to terms with my culpability in the murder of men everywhere, but it wasn't hard to justify. If they were stupid enough to fake propose, then I figured they deserved no less than a painful death at the hands of an enraged (and fully justified to be so) woman. In fact, if the girls had asked, she'd have joined in for the sake of all womankind (and a bit of personal satisfaction)—but this was too much. Fending off attacking fur balls was _not_ in her job description.

"Calm down," George said, his voice low and pleasant. I guess he was trying to make me feel safe. It almost worked. Almost.

Just as I was easing my purse down from above my head, a bright pink ball launched itself at my head and landed in my hair, and I pushed George Weasley aside, jerked open the door, and I ran for my life.

_

* * *

_

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me…

**Seven less Sickles than I'd earned.**

"You won't be getting paid for yesterday. I chose not to deduct for the four stitches beneath," George said, tapping the bandage on his head. That bandage gave my fear some credibility, I thought. Besides, I really needed those Sickles for my Christmas shopping.

"See, I told you. Those little creatures are dangerous," I defended.

"You whapped me in the head with the door on your way out!"

"Oh."

I guess I don't know my own strength sometimes. And Parvati didn't really need that silk scarf I'd seen at Gladrags a few days ago anyway.

* * *

_On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…_  
**Eight Puking Pastilles.**

"Really? Free samples?" I exclaimed as I mopped up yet another puddle of vomit.

"On hindsight, I've had brighter ideas," George conceded.

"You think?"

"I'll give back the seven Sickles." He pulled a face that did funny things to my stomach, and I was unable to stop myself from smiling… until the six year old standing near me launched projectile vomit onto my shoe. I glared at George.

"And give you a raise," he placated.

Forget Parvati. I was buying myself that scarf. I'd earned it.

_

* * *

_

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…

**A Dragon Keeper with nine tattoos—well, sort of.**

I mean he didn't give him to me. In fact, George didn't seem all that pleased his brother was in town for a visit, but the word among the female population surely did travel fast. Parvati met me at the shop as I was opening up, shivering from excitement rather than the biting cold.

"So it's true then?" she asked, nearly bouncing as I struggled with the key. She finally brushed my hands away, jerked off a mitten and did it herself. I didn't much mind when the warmth from the shop hit me in the face.

"So, is it?" my friend demanded again.

"Is what what?" I fired back in utter confusion.

"Is what what?" Parvati repeated, mocking me. "Don't play dumb with me." She looked at me a little harder. "Hm, well, you are wearing your clueless look. Maybe you're not playing."

I used the glare that I'd perfected since taking this job and Parvati took a step back. "You really don't know, do you?"

"I think we've established that, now get out of my way—" And that's when it happened. I saw him, the man who had been the subject of many a wet dream and intimate bits of girl talk between my best girl and I—Charlie Weasley. We'd first seen him our fourth year, and boy had he left an impression. He was all anyone who wasn't talking about Cedric Diggory (Krum had become old news—what could we say, we were fickle back then) could talk about. That keeper who'd come over from Romania with the coloured-bright drawings all over his arms, and hair bright enough to match. Come to think of it, I'd been attracted to a Weasley even then. Weasleys, they were trouble. They should come with warning labels, the lot of them.

"Hi," Charlie said, walking up to me with his hand extended in greeting. "You must be Lavender. George told me to expect you."

"Y-yes. Lavender-my name is." _Merlin, that's embarrassing!_ I was so tongue-tied I couldn't bring myself to say anything else. I just nodded and then realised that Charlie's hand was still out. To touch him—probably a bad idea when I couldn't even speak to him, but then it would be rude not to take his hand. I was just considering extending my own and shaking it when I received a sharp elbow to the ribs as Parvati cleared her throat beside me. "Ow!" I screeched. _This just keeps getting better!_

"So, who's your sharp-elbowed friend there?" Charlie asked, his smile all saccharine charm.

"Parvati Patil," Parvati said, rushing to shake Charlie's hand that was meant for me, and being sure to wiggle her finger when she did, in hopes that Charlie would notice the lack of a ring on it. "It's nice to meet you, finally." Parvati said, tittering like a thirteen year old girl when Charlie told her how pleased he was to make her acquaintance.

Anger at being shoved aside apparently made me forget my own lack of ability to speak. "Where's George?" I asked.

"He'll be around in a bit. He asked me to come open up the shop and stick around for the day. I don't mind. It'll keep me out from under Mum's feet and might even keep us from killing one another before I get back home to Romania."

"You're here all day?" Parvati squeaked.

"Yes."

"What a coincidence! So am I!" Parvati said, not missing a beat.

"You are not!" I shrieked back at her. "You were supposed to be at work five minutes ago. They're expecting you down the street at the boutique."

"I called in sick."

"You did not!" I retorted.

Parvati stuck her head in the fireplace, threw down Floo powder, then popped it back out again. "Okay, now I did. Where would you like me to help out first? What will you be doing, Charlie? I'd be happy to assist _you_."

I just bet she would.

Charlie's face was an unnatural shade of red, though I doubted that this was the first time some girl had made a fool out of herself in his presence. My best friend had no shame. She'd watched her sister, her cousins and the majority of our many friends marry in the past year or so and she was—to put it mildly, eager (to be bluntly honest-desperate was a more fitting word) to find herself a man.

Parvati was a hungry woman, and Charlie Weasley looked to her a dessert of the richest sort.

* * *

I had to admit having Parvati spend the day with me in the shop was more fun than I'd thought it would be. I felt a bit like a girl again as we giggled and ogled, ogled and giggled, then did some more of the same.

Charlie Weasley was a sight to behold, and we girls did our share of beholding all that manly goodness. At one point, as he was reaching up to a top shelf to retrieve an item for a customer, his shirt raised in the back and gave us a glimpse of tasty freckled skin, and I heard the sharp intake of Parvati's breath beside me. "Dear God, have you ever seen anything so delicious in your life?" Parvati whispered.

"Not recently," I replied with complete honesty.

Strangely though, George, who was typically light-hearted and easy to work with, was anything but when his brother was present. He snapped at Parvati often and did his best to toss her from the shop. She refused to go and I think even George realised he couldn't take her by brute forced. A woman around Charlie Weasley was not a creature to be messed about with. He did, however, bump her into the fireplace once, tossed down Floo powder and smirked as she was whisked away. She returned a soot covered mess, but a relentless one.

"Very funny, George," she said, brushing the soot out of her hair and onto his shoes.

"Didn't mean for it to be funny. I planned to seal off the grate before you could get back."

"Not nearly fast enough," she replied merrily, not fazed in the least by George's clearly not wanting her there. She had come to stay, and if she got to take home a trinket in the form of a man, well all the better.

When the shop customers began to thin out, Parvati and I were standing at the counter begging Charlie to tell us tales of dragons and adventure that we were certain must be rampant in the forests of Romania. He conceded in wowing us with stories of rescue and danger that I was sure were probably mostly fabricated, but they did sound good coming from his lips.

And when he told a joke, regardless that it wasn't all that funny, I found myself laughing along with Parvati who was batting her eyelashes at the handsome, charming dragon keeper.

The day went by far too quickly for either mine or Parvati's liking, and Charlie bid us farewell. George simply walked his brother out without speaking as I closed up the shop for the night.

The most frustrating part of the entire day for me was that I went home with thoughts of a Weasley man on my mind, but it wasn't Charlie. And Mr Giant Cock was a sore substitute for what I wanted.

_

* * *

_

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…

**Ten little tantrums.**

I'm certainly not the most punctual person on the planet, but I really don't think being thirty seconds late merited the blessing out that I received from George when I entered the shop, minus Parvati. Though she had insisted on tagging along with me and pressing her face against the window to see if the object of her affection was in the shop today. She only went on to work when I promised to inform her immediately of any hint of a Charlie sighting.

Two hours into the day and I'd been criticised for the way I stocked shelves, my inappropriate packaging technique and, worst of all, George had called my shoes ugly. Well, a girl had her limits, and I'd had enough. I drew the line at disparaging my shoes.

I waited until the last customer had left the shop and I had a free moment, then I rushed to the back where George was doing inventory. "I'll have you know I had to save a long time for these shoes. They cost a fortune."

George looked bored at my outrage, giving my shoes no respect whatsoever. "They curl up at the toes. You look like one of Santa's elves."

"Curly toes are the newest style, moron!" He was my boss, but these were my shoes, and they needed me, so I didn't hold my tongue.

"Then the newest style and anyone who follows it has no fashion sense."

I saw red. And not jolly Santa's suit colour red either! However, unfortunately, I'm not particularly witty when I'm angry. "You're—you—you have a big stupid head." A five year old would have had a better retort. Embarrassing really. But I had shoe stress, and it jumbled my mind.

And then that pain in the arse boss of mine began to laugh at my childishness. Talk about adding insult to injury. So I took my curly shoes and I kicked him in the shin. For the record, ladies, curly shoes don't really do much to protect your toes. I kicked and then hopped around cursing and swearing. Also again, for the record, cursing and hopping in high heels that make your calves look all pretty is not smart. My ankle twisted and over I went in a big ungraceful heap.

George fell over too, but that was because he was laughing at me. Well, until he realised that I really was hurt. He crawled over beside me and took my ankle between his hands as he tugged off my beautiful (I maintain it's true, despite protests to the contrary) shoe.

"Where does it hurt?"

"I'm not speaking to you."

He shook his head, called me a name that I didn't much fancy, and mashed around on my ankle.

"OW!" I screeched, and kicked out reflexively catching him in a most uncomfortable place if his moaning, groaning and rolling about was any indication. Honestly, talk about a drama queen. It was just a light kick to the groin. I highly doubted it merited such theatrics.

We ended up closing up early that day (even in the rush of Christmas shopping), both holding ice packs on our injuries as we sat across from one another in George's flat above the shop.

George looked across the room at me. "I'm sorry I insulted your shoes. They're perfectly nice shoes…"

I'm fairly certain he mumbled 'for an elf' under his breath, but I couldn't be certain. "You should be." I wasn't ready to be forgiving yet, even if he did help me up the stairs while doubled over and clutching his boy bits.

"And you would be sorry for…" George began, hinting strongly that I might want to finish up that sentence.

I was sufficiently guilted into responding with some contrition. "Well, I guess I'm a little sorry for kicking you." He started to smile until I continued on. "You know that ice packs on your—erm, yeah that, will make you impotent."

George's ice pack sailed across the room and I could not contain my giggles.

"You were totally lying, weren't you?"

"Payback on behalf of my offended shoes. Truce?"

"I reckon that's best, or else I'm going to be one poor wizard if we keep having to shut down in the middle of the day during the busiest season of the year."

"I'm not sure how I'm supposed to work and wait on your customers with my ankle all swollen tomorrow," I said.

"Well, I'd be willing to heal it for you, if you promise to keep your reflexes in check." George raised an eyebrow in inquiry that I might be able to control my baser urges to kick him a good one.

"You keep your tongue respectful and I'll have a discussion with my foot about not making you moan like an infant and writhe about on the floor."

"I'm not feeling overly comforted by that statement, but I need your help tomorrow, so I guess I'm going to have to risk it. Of course, I'm sure you'd be more pleased if it were my brother touching your foot."

"Ron Weasley? Hardly, that infatuation ended long ago," I said with a snort of derision.

"I was referring to the brother you spent the entirety of yesterday ogling." George nearly spit the words out, and if I didn't know better, I might have thought that he was jealous.

"Ah, Charlie!"

"Yes, Charlie."

"Pretty to look at, for sure, but completely not my type. Parvati's type, yes, but then who isn't Parvati's type these days? Never tell her I said that, or all not-kicking bets are completely null and void. But I think I prefer someone with, I don't know, a little more staying power, I guess." I swear, I may be wrong, but I Floo'd home that evening with the distinct impression that my answer couldn't have made George Weasley a happier man if I'd tried. And I kind of liked the way he looked at me, too. It made me a little tingly and warm inside, but I chose to blame the eggnog that George gave me before I left his flat. No telling what he might have put in there. Right? Right?

* * *

_On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me…_  
**Eleven little kisses. (Okay, it was one, but it was a toe curler! Besides, it would totally screw up the song if I said one!)**

"Who knew so many people would want mistletoe from a joke shop?" George said, as we rang up our newest item, which was flying off the shelves faster than I could believe. He was clearly trying to get me to ask why his mistletoe was so special and what brilliant thing he'd done to it.

I wasn't obliging. "You realise," I retorted, "that it is Christmas Eve tomorrow and mistletoe is appropriately festive for the holiday?"

"Is there ever a word that leaves those pretty lips that isn't sarcastic?" George said with a wink that I was embarrassed to discover made my cheeks flush red with heat.

"Oddly enough, not when you're present." The shop was beginning to clear out, lunch time having passed and the majority of shoppers gone back to their jobs until the work day ended. Then, there would be another rush of last minute gift buying. "What's so special about this new invention of yours anyway?" I asked, nodding at the few remaining pieces of mistletoe on the shelf, and finally giving him what I knew would excite him.

"Well," George began eager to rattle off the numerous reasons his new product was the best thing invented since rust-proof cauldrons, "first of all, the greatest thing about this invention is that it will keep them coming back. It only gets one use and then it vanishes."

"And you're charging five Sickles for that? That's robbery!"

George tsked at my lack of business-mindedness. "My patrons always get what they pay for. This mistletoe promises the two people standing under it the absolute best kiss of their lives. It's guaranteed to leave them breathless, or I'll give back their Sickles, once they've submitted to a hefty dose of Veritaserum, of course. I know my product works, and anyone who declares otherwise is lying."

"Kissing is a natural, wonderful, intimate thing. And you should be ashamed of yourself for exploiting it, George Weasley!" The romantic in me was outraged, but I couldn't deny (at least not to myself—I'd deny it until Hell froze over to George) that my curiosity was certainly piqued.

I'd been kissed before, and it had always been a nice, even passionate at times, experience, but I had to wonder deep down if there wasn't something I'd been missing. I mean people had been tearing these things off the shelves all day, and I found myself daydreaming about what it must be like to part your lips to the man you loved and simply lose yourself in the wonderfulness that was his kiss.

"I can see the gears working in that head of yours," George taunted.

I "hmphed" in reply and crossed my arms over my chest. My nipples had gone hard at the daydream, and my robes weren't doing much to hide them.

"Tell you what. I'll lower the price if you try one of these and can honestly say it's not the single best kiss you've ever had."

"I'm not kissing one of your customers!"

George chuckled. "That wasn't quite what I had in mind." George dangled the mistletoe over his own head and puckered up in fish-like fashion.

"No!"

"What are you afraid of?" George said.

"Well, first of all, you should see how your lips look. That alone would scare off anyone who might even consider kissing you. It would be like kissing a flounder." Besides, every instinct I have says if I kiss you once, I might never want to stop. I left that last thought to ramble about my head, and refused to let it pass my lips.

"Chicken!" George squawked.

"I am not!"

"Are too." Then George began to bawk in chicken-like fashion, and my best instincts were cast aside before I seemed able to control myself and I had George Weasley's face between my hands, and my lips were closing in on his. I saw his mouth open slightly, his breath brushing warmth against my face.

I might have still been able to save myself by pulling back, but my eyes met his, and George's arm encircled my waist and pulled me flush against him, and then he was kissing me as I'd never been kissed before. His tongue explored my mouth, his teeth nipped my bottom lip and I surrendered completely to his plundering. My knees went weak as his hand tangled in my hair, the mistletoe bumping against my forehead mostly forgotten by its holder, and I felt George toss it aside as his arm tightened around me to keep me from falling. Honestly, I couldn't have cared less if I'd hit the ground, as long as he'd come along too, bringing with him that wonderful mouth of his.

"Fuck," George said.

"Ditto," I agreed, and I went in for a repeat.

"The mistletoe's gone," he said.

"Do you care?" I asked, breathless.

"Not really," and he kissed me again.

The price for the new mistletoe dropped and several shoppers got a good deal that evening, because that second kiss was even better than the first.

I left the shop that night with thoughts of George Weasley playing about my head in a most unhealthy way. Mixing business and pleasure was a mistake. And maybe if I kept thinking that, I might even convince myself that it was true.

_

* * *

_

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…

**Twelve tangled bits of tinsel.**

George and I did a bit of tiptoeing around one another the next day, the memory of George's lips on mine something that I was simply unable to shake off. But he was my boss, and I needed to behave in a professional manner when we were working together.

Besides, even if I'd wanted to knock him down and kiss him breathless, I never got the chance. The shop was a bustle of activity. The hours of shopping time remaining were dwindling down, and last minute shoppers were ransacking the shelves for anything they might put beneath their tree.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted.

"My feet hurt," George wailed, "and I still have to wrap my own presents before I head over to the Burrow."

"Well, that's what happens when you procrastinate." I was sexually frustrated and not prone to being sympathetic at the moment.

George mocked me, but hushed when I gave him "the look". "So what are you doing tonight, Lavender?"

"I don't know. My parents won't make it into town until tomorrow, so I really don't have much lined up for the evening. I guess I'll just finish looking for the ornaments and decorate my Christmas tree."

"We still have some decorations, and you could save me the trouble of having to box those up for next season. Take what you'd like." He leaned in and I thought he might kiss me. His eyes were smoky with lust (okay, maybe I'd been reading too many romance novels at night), but he simply brushed by me with a smile.

"Thank you," I said. "That will be lovely. I have no idea where I put that box of decorations last year. This will save me a lot of time."

Agreeing to take decorations from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was my first mistake of the evening. And I'd worked there for twelve days. I should have known better.

* * *

"Help," I screeched when I heard a tapping at my front door. "Please, whoever's there. Help me!"

George burst through the door of my flat with wand drawn and on high alert for whatever might be attacking me… then he began to laugh so hard I thought he might never stop.

"I guess I should have warned you about that," he said, wiping his eyes, as I proceeded to attempt (unsuccessfully) to hop across the room while tied to a Christmas tree to see if I could use its piney branches as a deadly weapon.

"You think?"

"I'd even forgotten we carry Tie Me Up Tinsel. It was designed with the kinkier Christmas crowd in mind."

My tree was refusing to be hopped anywhere, and the tinsel only held me tighter the more I struggled. "Well, that's just lovely," I spat. "Now get me out of here!"

George scratched his chin and looked me up and down. "I don't know. I rather like you this way. It keeps you from using those lethal feet of yours to damage my manly parts."

"I'm going to do more than damage your manly parts if you don't untie me this instant! I'll cut it off!"

"God, you're sexy when you're all fired up like that."

"I am not—wait, did you say sex—mph!" I might have been able to finish my angry tirade, but George was kissing me, lips cold from the snowy outdoors, gloved hands trying to find a place to hold me that wasn't piney and prickly, and angry was the last thing I was.

"I've wanted to do that all day," he said when he finally stepped back and tugged off his gloves, tossing them aside.

"For the record, you didn't have to tie me up in order to kiss me. I sort of wanted you to do that."

"Did you save the packaging?"

"In the bin. This is cutting off my circulation. Please let me out."

"There's a safe word on the package." George's arm disappeared inside the bin.

"Oh, be careful. There's—"

"Ew, that's disgusting!"

"—the remains of Kitty Fluffington's dinner in there."

"Kitty Fluffington? Really?"

"Remember how protective I am of my shoes?" I asked. "Well, that doesn't come close to the way I feel about my cat. Tread carefully."

"Nice name," George said with a gulp. "Very nice." He scraped off remains of cat food from the tinsel's package, pointed his wand at the tree and said abra cadabra.

"Abra cadabra?"

"Hey, no self-respecting wizard would use those words at any other time. So cliche." He scrunched up his face in a way that made me giggle.

I might have continued the discussion on this topic, but I was too grateful to be free from my tree. "Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome." And then he was pulling me to him again, and I was certainly not resisting. I went willingly into his arms, the memories of that first kiss, and each one subsequent propelling me towards the ecstasy I knew George Weasley could provide.

But then common sense got the better of me, and I pushed back as far as George would allow. "This is a bad idea. You're my boss and we really shouldn't—"

"If that's a problem, you're fired," George gasped, seeking out my lips again.

I might have protested if I hadn't wanted him so desperately. It seemed a good fix for the moment, so I went with it. "'kay," I gasped, kissing him back with abandon. "I demand severance pay?"

"Whatever-_kiss_-you-_lick_-want." George was pushing me to the ground, and following with his weight pressing me down and keeping me there beneath him. We ended up beneath my Christmas attack-tree, and George whispered something I didn't understand. Suddenly, the hated tinsel was winding its way around my wrists and pulling my arms above my head.

"Oh, hell! What were those ridiculous words again? It's got me!"

"I know," George said with a smirk. "And don't tax yourself with trying to remember the words. They'll only work for the person who says them to it first."

"And that makes the words 'safe'?" I asked with incredulity.

"Well, you'll note they weren't a big seller! We had enough left over for you to decorate—well, attempt to decorate, anyway—your tree."

"Yes, and that went well." My sarcasm was dripping.

"I don't know. I'm not complaining. It allowed me to get you under the Christmas tree, in a very compromising position, which was promising to be a lot of fun before you started yipping and yammering."

I'd show _him_ yipping and yammering if I could only get my knee free from the heavy George-weight that was upon me.

"Surely, you don't think I'm stupid enough to let those wicked legs of yours near my favourite parts, love? I learn from my mistakes."

I would have made some token protest (the woman in me felt the need to be heard whether the words were sincere or not), but then George's perfect lips were coming at me and all I could utter was a rather embarrassing, "Yes, please." He kissed me warm and soft, the bristle of his stubbled cheek rubbing against mine.

"I'll untie you if you'd like," George whispered, nuzzling his nose against my neck, my ear, my—

"Oh Merlin!" I squeaked out, my bound hands completely forgotten as his nose dipped down into the low-cut collar of my blouse and freeing that top button with just a nudge. His fingers worked my blouse from the other end, his nose dipping down to release button two (I have no idea how he was doing that, but I didn't even care), as his tongue snaked into my bra, and eventually fingers and nose met in the middle, all buttons done away with and he pushed aside my shirt, baring my scarred stomach to his eyes.

"Don't look at those, they're ugly," I said, missing greatly the ability to move my hands to cover them.

"They're wicked cool is what they are. Glad these are in a spot that customers can't see though. They'd totally take away from the novelty of my missing ear. Can't have you stealing all my glory, can I?" George winked.

"Not to worry. I'm fired, remember?"

"I'd forgotten." He shrugged. "Not exactly thinking with my head right now, at least not the one above my shoulders."

"Crass."

"Very."

He popped the button on my denims and I raised my hips to oblige him, as he tugged down the zip and took hold of the belt loops, pulling down… or trying to.

"Could these things be any tighter, Lavender?"

"Are you insinuating that I'm fat?"

George promptly sat down on my legs, immobilizing them. "No! I would never—personally, I find skinny girls to be completely overrated and—" My look must have encouraged him to stop.

"Do you _really_ think that was helpful?"

"From that glare, I'm thinking probably not. If it's any consolation, it sounded far better in my head."

"Not feeling all that consoled. No."

"See, in my head it was all she's curvy, and gorgeous with amazing tits and a body that makes my cock harden the minute she enters a room and—"

"—you should let your head talk more often and cut out your tongue. Your head, I like. Your tongue, not so much."

"We're good now?" George asked before releasing my legs. When I nodded, he used his wand to rid me of my clothes. "Seemed safest," he said at my look of incredulity at being laid out naked before him. "I can hardly mess things up more if I get rid of them all at once."

"You don't give yourself nearly enough credit. I'm certain you'll manage to bollocks it up again."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence."

"You're welcome."

"Seems my tongue owes you a bit of penance for being naughty," George said with a waggle of his eyebrows, and before I could answer that indeed, it did, he leaned down and began to trace the sensitive scar tissue that criss-crossed its way across my abdomen with the tip of his tongue as his hands splayed my waist.

I wanted to comment that it seemed unfair for him to be fully dressed and hiding what lay beneath from my hungry eyes, but it just came out in a silly sigh when I tried. His hands had strayed from my waist and he was working my nipples in a way that made speech impossible.

"Fuck," I said, when he crawled down my body to grasp my thighs and spread them, opening me to him in a way that made me feel vulnerable and sexy at the same time.

"Not yet," he said, snarky even when passion took hold, and he pressed his thumbs on either side of my sex and opened my folds as his head dipped down and his warm breath ghosted over me. I melted into him, craving his touch and arching up violently at the first flick of his tongue against my clit.

He raised his head and I whimpered at the loss. "Do I need to put you in a body bind to keep from being injured?" George asked.

"And here I was liking your tongue better. 'Was' being the operative word, you know, in case you missed that."

"Just asking. Since you were being so enthusiastic and all."

"I'm bound enough, thank you very much," I said looking up at my tinsel-tied wrists. "You'll just have to decide if it's worth the risk."

"You taste fucking amazing, and I always was a sucker for sweets," George said, swiping his tongue in a broad stroke across my folds.

"Stop talking. Like you… much better… not talking." I gasped out the words as he slid a finger into me and closed his lips around my clit and began to suckle. A second stubby finger joined the first, and George began to twist them in and out, rolling his tongue across my clit. And I might have lasted longer, since my only partner in a good while had been Mr Giant Cock, but that stubbled chin of his brushing against my folds was enough to throw me over the edge into a mind staggering orgasm. I bucked hard against him, gasping and moaning…and apparently tugging or attempting to flail my arms about, because before I had recovered I had a mouthful of pine needles and an angry Christmas fairy-light had popped me on the nose with her tiny fist.

"You okay down there?" I asked tentatively as I tried to look around branches for the George-person I was rather certain was beneath.

"I'm beginning to understand why Tie Me Up Tinsel didn't sell all that well," George said, sitting up and tossing aside a silver ornament that had caught to hang just perfectly on his remaining ear.

* * *

So, I think my dislike of Christmas is justified. In the matter of one holiday season, I was puked on by pre-schoolers, ravaged by a Pygmy Puff (Hey, it could have happened. That thing looked vicious!), tied up by tinsel and clobbered by a Christmas tree.

And not a single one of those things even came close to preventing me from falling head over heels in love with George Weasley.

I married him the following year.


End file.
